Only a Game
by Brigette Janine
Summary: What was going on through Mustang's head the morning of the Promised Day. Just a little drabble I felt like writing. These were chess pieces, reasonable and unchanging. Today, he was fighting with people. Hinted Royai. Yay chess metaphors! R&R please!


I've had this hangigng around my desktop for a while, and for some reason never posted it before the series ended. Go figure. I actually played this entire game out, and white won. Again, go figure.

Disclaimer: I own Roy Mustang and everything related to Fullmetal Alchemist.

...and if you believed that, I have a bridge to sell you. XD

* * *

Colonel Roy Mustang lay awake in bed, as he had for the past week, thinking. The "Promised Day" was only two days away. Everything was planned, but as always in battle, there were variables.

These "what if's…?" displayed themselves one after another through his head.

"What if there's a homunculus we don't know about?"

"What if the soldiers from Briggs turn on us?"

"What if…"

He tossed the blankets off himself and looked out the window. The moon was high over Central, about one in the morning. "Well," he thought to himself, "That's all the sleep I'm getting tonight."

H shuffled into the small bathroom attached to his bedroom and splashed cold water onto his face. He looked into the mirror. His face was showing the signs of three hours of sleep a night for the past week and his dark hair hung lank in his face. But even though it was one a.m., his eyes glinted with the mysterious knowledge of a man with a plot.

Still in his pajamas, he entered the small kitchen and looked for something to eat. He threw some bread in the toaster and started a pot of coffee brewing. While waiting for the toast to be ready, more "what ifs…?" ran through his head.

His eyes wandered around his small apartment, looking for something to distract him. A glimmer of polished wood peaked out from a stack of books and newspapers. After a slight avalanche of paper goods, he was able to pull out a battered chess set. He smiled remembering the day Lt. General Grumman had given the set to Mustang as he left Eastern HQ for Central.

As he turned the set over, an idea struck him. He cleared of some space on the small kitchen table and began setting up the pieces. He grabbed a piece of scrap paper and wrote on it "Master Sgt. Kain Fuery" eight times, "2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc" twice, "2nd Lieutenant Heymans Breda" twice, "Warrant Officer Vato Falman" twice, "1st Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye" once and "Colonel Roy Mustang" once.

Fuery was the pawn. Falman was the rook. Breda was the knight. Havoc was the bishop. He was the king, and Riza was his queen. The white pieces, representing his side - the side that would try to lose as few pieces as possible- lined up on one side. The other side-their side- was black. Their strategy would be to win at any cost, regardless of the losses to their own side.

He played. Strategizing for both sides, each was equally skilled with their own strengths and weaknesses. Observing each move and position, he calculated the outcome and results of each play, each folly. Both sides took losses. At the end of the game, the white side lost three pawns, a rook, a knight and both bishops.

"Sorry, Havoc," he said, setting the second bishop aside, "we all knew you wouldn't be fighting anyway."

The coffee grew cold in the pot, and the toast was scorched when the smell of smoke drew Mustang away from the game.

After an hour and a half, Mustang made the last move, "Checkmate." The black king had two pawns and a rook left, but they couldn't help him now. Surrounded on all sides by white pieces, the black king met his end.

Mustang tipped the black king over. His side had won. For some reason, this comforted him greatly. He looked outside. The sun was just peeking over the skyline of Central, silhouetting Central HQ at the center. It was the Promised Day.

As he put the pieces back in the case, all "what if's…" silenced, he thought. They were the side of good. Good always won. He had just proved it in the chess game. But those were chess pieces, they were predictable and rational. People would be fighting today. People he cared about. People who, sometimes, were irrational.

As the sun rose, flooding the city with the red of dawn, Roy Mustang couldn't help but regret that he had no idea what would happen today. He regretted that his prediction through a chess game had only been that. Just a game.

He went back into his bedroom and got dressed. Throwing on a jacket, he walked out the door and greeted the Promised Day, wondering if this would be that last sunrise he saw.

~~BJ


End file.
